


Home Sweet Home

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-08
Updated: 2011-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-19 04:22:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You wanna tell me why a nuclear bomb went off in my kitchen?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Sweet Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [persnickett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/persnickett/gifts).



> Just a little bit of schmoopy birthday fluff for persnickett. :)

The kitchen is John’s favourite room in the house.

The basement is nothing but cinder walls and a furnace with a wonky pilot light, and the bathroom is too small for one person, let alone two. The living room? It’s a contender.

He still remembers picking out the sofa, the year that he moved back to the city and Holly stayed on the coast, the year that was mostly spent speaking to his wife through clenched teeth and clutching the receiver in a white-knuckled grip and then, at the end, the slamming of the phone and a dial tone. The year that turned out to be the final year, despite Zeus’s assurances to the contrary. And all right, most of that year is lost in a murky haze of scotch and soda (and then just scotch), but there are a few things he clearly remembers. Punching a hole in the wall inches from Walter Cobb’s head is one of them, and picking out the most bile-inducing sofa in the history of the universe is another.

Now, there might be frayed arms, sections of fabric that are worn almost clear away, the odd stain. But years of lounging in the same position have moulded the cushions to the shape of his body. And when he stretches out and watches the game on the big screen that dominates one wall of his tiny living room, he’s hard-pressed to think of anything better.

Well.

Okay, maybe the bedroom. Where he used to sprawl spread-eagled on the double bed, lying to himself that he loved having the space to finally spread out, pretending he didn’t feel dwarfed and alone. Now. Now when he rolls over it’s to press Matthew into the mattress, to smooth a hand down his spine and feel him shiver at the touch. To smile against his shoulder blade as he mouths kisses into that firm young skin, grip his hips and make him splutter and keen and push back and come shuddering and silent. To card his fingers through sweat-soaked hair and tug Matt into place and realize, happily, _contentedly_ , that the silence never lasts for long; listen to him babble until he finally drifts into sleep.

Yeah, the bedroom is pretty fucking amazing these days.

But the kitchen is still his favourite.

* * *

The trial is adjourned early on the third day and for a change Scalvino isn’t riding his ass about paperwork, so John snags his coat and heads for the stairs. He’s already got his tie loosened by the time he hits the pavement, and the early start means he beats the rush hour traffic. He’s pulling into his driveway at three fifteen, and as he cuts the engine he realizes it’s the first time he’s seen his house in daylight in at least a month. He hopes his cases get assigned to McGowan more fucking often.

Beer, he thinks as he opens the door. A cold one – just one. Maybe a thick ham sandwich on texas bread with extra mayo, fuck the doctor and his carb warnings. Then an hour in the basement, working on that old table that he’s been wanting to fix up for the last six months.

He can almost taste the Bud when he swings toward the kitchen, and he’s two steps into the room before what he’s seeing actually makes the journey from his eyes to his brain. Then he thinks he deserves _two_ beers.

“What,” he says conversationally, “the fuck?”

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Matt says, already turning toward him, and John’s eyes track from the spilled flour to the apple cores to the pool of vanilla slowly dripping from the counter onto his linoleum to Matt’s face. Swipe of powder beneath his nose giving John uncomfortable narc division flashbacks, streak of the same in his hair calling to mind Elsa Lanchester and a big lug in oversized boots. Matt blinks and shakes his hair back out of his eyes, the motion sending a flurry of powder to the floor. “Hey,” he says, trying for casual and failing miserably. “Hi. You’re here. Why are you here?”

“I live here, kid.”

“Right,” Matt nods, a little too exuberantly. “Yeah. Of course. You live… yeah. I mean—“

“You wanna tell me why a nuclear bomb went off in my kitchen?”

Matt glances around the disaster area, eyes wide, as though he’s just realizing that every available surface is covered in a fine layer of flour and sugar. “Uh. Because you’re early?”

John swipes a finger over the window ledge above the sink, not at all surprised when he glances down to see that his fingertip is dusted white. Now _that_ takes talent. He arches a brow. “So this is my fault.”

“And because I was making you a pie,” Matt adds quickly. “I know that traditionally it should be cake, but Lucy said that you prefer pie. Apple pie with loads of cinnamon, right? Your favourite? So I did some research and I downloaded about forty different variations of apple pie recipes, and it looked pretty easy. So I thought I would do it. Make pie.”

“Uh huh.”

“And then… the flour kind of exploded. Not my fault, I’m pretty sure it was… faulty, or something. And it’s actually really difficult to knead dough, McClane! I’ve totally been working out, you _know_ I have, but I guess I’ve got some work to do on upper body strength. Also, this totally explains why my gramma has linebacker arms, man. Just saying.” He brushes a hand through his hair, leaves tiny specks of dough behind. “Anyway. Don’t flip out, I know you’re like Mr. Clean, and I don’t just mean with the whole head thing…” he waves a hand at his head, makes a face. “I’ll clean it up, it’s just, you’re _early_ , man, and—“

John scratches at his chin, surveys the damage. “You were baking me a pie,” he says.

Matt sighs. “Yeah.”

“A pie.”

“Yeah,” Matt repeats. He cocks his head, smiles crookedly. “Um. Happy Birthday?”

John used to avoid the kitchen at all costs. It was the home of tv dinners, frozen pizza, leftover chinese takeout eaten cold over the sink. It was sitting silently alone at a table for four, shovelling tasteless microwaved food into his mouth as rapidly as possible. It was staring at the wall and listening to the clock tick down the minutes.

Now. Now there are home-cooked meals, a rice cooker and a blender on the counter, an actual fucking casserole dish in the cupboard. There is lingering over three cheese pasta, Matt explaining at length why water fluoridation causes schizophrenia, John letting the words flow around him and over him and through him, basking in them. Now there is talk and laughter and… and pie. On his birthday.

John crosses the room in two quick strides, crowds Matt against the counter. Up close like this, he sees that the kid somehow managed to get flour onto his _eyelashes_ , and John huffs out a laugh before he notices the smudge of cinnamon high on Matt’s cheekbone, leans in to swipe it away with his tongue.

Later, John will pull out Holly’s mother’s apple crumble recipe, because the old battle-axe was good for something at least, and teach Matt some basic Baking 101.

Now. Now he nudges at Matt’s ear, urges him silently to give him access to that sweet spot that makes him squirm, takes Matt’s earlobe between his teeth and sucks until the kid shudders and lets his head fall back. He’s already tugging on the button on Matt’s jeans and one of the kid’s flailing hands has settled on his shoulder, trying to push the suit jacket off one-handed while the other pulls at his dress shirt, working to expose skin. When the button on the jeans finally pops loose, John releases it and reaches for the hem of Matt’s T-shirt instead, flips it up and over his head and then, then there is so much warm skin on display that he is almost giddy with it.

“Okay, John?” Matt says. “Wait, isn’t this your best suit? You’re going to get it all covered in flour, and… okay, so you don’t care if it gets covered in… oh, taking it OFF, yes, that is totally the best plan, John, you should do that all the time, you know? We should have like, a rule, where the kitchen is the naked zone. And we have to be naked in here all the time, and—“

John surges forward to take his lips, shuts him up the best way possible. Hikes Matt up onto the counter and is quickly buried deep inside him, Matt’s fingers clutching convulsively at his shoulders and Matt’s ankles locked around his waist and that active mouth reduced to nothing more than gasps of _more_ and _harder_ and _fuck yes_. Later, there will be sweeping and mopping, browned and bruised apple slices carted to the composter. Now there is this, this crazy thing he never expected in a million fucking years, laughter and love and light. He holds on tight.


End file.
